Bread of Life
by AMarguerite
Summary: Another installment in my quest to write fics for minor characters. Sister Simplice makes toast, meets Fantine, and mulls over the events of the French Revolution. Rather preachy, but one is hard put to write nonpreachy fics about a nun. :


Disclaimer: I am writing to amuse myself, not to make a profit, and know that Victor Hugo invented these characters. Thus, the characters all belong to him, except for the patients, whom I've invented (except for Fantine), and the priest. Please do not sue.

A/N: I am fully aware that I have run-on sentences. I choose to ignore that rule of grammar based on the context I use them in, which I hope is excusable. Italics with '' marks about them are Sister Simplice's thoughts, and other italicized words are either Latin or French.

* * *

The bread was stale, and Sister Simplice was beginning to wonder how to cut it. She couldn't break it- breaking things always felt terribly awkward, from years of mending broken bones. Besides, the bread was too stale to be broken by hand, even by Sister Perpetua, whose hands were much stronger than Sister Simplice's.

The knife was missing, so Sister Simplice couldn't cut it. She didn't like using the knife much anyway. She had to press down on the top, blunt edge, leaving red indents on her palm that she always wished to rub with her fingertips, which distracted her from her patients.

She tried gently banging it against the side of the table, but the only result of her efforts had been curious stares from a few of the patients in the ward (the ones that happened to wake up as a result of her banging), and a loud guffaw from Sister Perpetua.

She tried warming the bread over the stove, but the only result of her efforts there were a burnt fingertip and a stale loaf of what appeared to be toast.

But still, the poor patients needed to be fed their breakfast, and they needed something to supplement their porridge. She couldn't get another loaf of bread because she didn't have the funds to do so- she hadn't touched money since she entered the convent- and she had no idea if the bakery was open or not. She had never been to the bakery. Besides, it was very early in the morning- the sun had not yet risen, and would not for several hours.

Sister Simplice rested her hand on a bit of holly that Sister Perpetua had brought in to decorate the infirmary. She rubbed her burnt finger against the waxy surface of the leaf absently. '_Points to represent the thorns of His crown, red berries for the blood He shed_.'

The door to the infirmary swung open and banged against the wall, informing the various peoples of the infirmary that it was windy outside. Sister Simplice jumped and turned to face the door, the sleeve of her serge gown catching on the pointed holly leaf.

She gently disentangled the leaf and placed it back on the table, where it had previously rested. She looked up, to see Monsieur Madeleine walk in the door, surprisingly, the figure of a woman draped over his arms.

Sister Simplice looked at the woman in mild astonishment. Though it was cold out, and by the look of Monsieur Madeline's hat and greatcoat, it had started to snow once more, the woman's arms were bare, and she wore only a low- cut evening dress. No fishu (did woman still wear those? Sister Simplice was unsure, though she remembered her mother had always worn a fishu), no cloak, no shawl….

Sister Simplice went up to Monsieur Madeline at once, overwhelmed by pity for the poor woman. She must be cold.

And hungry. The bread….

"Forgive me, sister," Monsieur Madeline murmured softly. He always spoke softly, which Sister Simplice found very considerate of him, as it distracted no one, and never disturbed any of the patients. "I cannot close the door."

That much was apparent. Sister Simplice nodded, and quickly closed the door so that the patients would not get cold. Her burnt finger felt odd against the metal of the door, reminding her once more of the bread. It was vexing to have to worry about something so trivial. After all, 'Man cannot live on bread alone, but on the Word of God.'

"Monsieur, there's a bed at the end of the infirmary," Sister Perpetua called. "And you! Stop picking at that bandage! Your hand will never heal that way." She bustled over to the Monsieur Verre, who had burnt his hand when molten glass had fallen on it, instead of in the mold. Poor Monsieur Verre, in such pain. Sister Simplice would have to redress his wound later. After she got breakfast together.

The bread… how to cut it?

Monsieur Madeline strode in his long, firm steps towards the end of the infirmary, and paused in front of a bed with a crucifix above it. He bowed his head momentarily, allowing Sister Simplice time to calmly approach.

Upon her arrival at the end of the infirmary, Monsieur Madeline finished his prayers and turned to her. "Sister, this woman is very ill. A man stuffed snow down the back of her dress last night, and I do not know how long she had been walking out in the cold like this."

At once, Sister Simplice noticed how the very short blonde hair of the woman was adorned with wilted flowers, and how low the neckline of the dress was cut. The only women who would walk about so under clothed, in the cold, with flowers in her hair… were streetwalkers.

Without thought, she recoiled.

A wave of shame enveloped her, and she busied herself with pulling back the bed curtains and turning down the sheets. Her burnt finger throbbed.

"Thank you Sister." Monsieur Madeline gently placed the woman on the bed.

The woman was pale, terribly pale, her complexion nearly matching the bed sheets, and she looked pitiably thin. Sister Simplice had the odd experience of wishing to care for a patient, yet wishing to never have to touch the patient, as if afraid the sins of the woman lying before her would taint her own soul. Monsieur Madeline tenderly covered the woman with the bedclothes.

"I shall tend to her, monsieur," Sister Simplice murmured. She gently pulled the blanket folded on the end of the bed up to the woman's chin, as much to hide her from sight as to keep her warm. She already felt unclean, stained, as if she had spilt soup on her hands. Her shame burned just as much, though she could not comprehend why she should feel ashamed.

Monsieur Madeline smiled. "I thank you once more, Sister."

"She shall need to see the doctor when he arrives, monsieur."

"Of course."

"Monsieur le maire!" cried Monsieur Verre. "How are you this morning? The sisters say my hand will be better in a fortnight. Shall I still have my job at the factory?"

Monsieur Madeline turned to the man at once, doffing his hat and speaking softly and kindly to Monsieur Verre. Sister Simplice turned back to the patient, staring at her burnt finger with no little consternation. Those poor patients, with only porridge to eat for their breakfast. Bread was so precious. The priest had once told her that the average person ate two pounds of it a day. Wasn't the Revolution fought because women had been outraged by the scarcity and high price of bread? Sister Simplice thought it had been, though she mostly remembered the de- Christianization movement, and watching uniformed officials dropping rosaries and Bibles to the cobblestones, laughing as if they didn't care about them, and feeling tears running down her cheeks and onto her habit, as one man calmly informed the monks and nuns that monastic vows had been abolished.

She remembered a monastery closing, the government having taken over the land, and feeling startled as the monks looked at one another in confusion, and a sickening twist of dread in the pit of her stomach at the thought that the convent would be closed.

She remembered the oath they had to swear to the government. She remembered the village priest, who was very young, and had a kind smile and very blue eyes, telling her that the new oath was less demanding than his previous oath to the king… and the young priest being delivered by tumbrel to the next village, where she heard he had been executed. The pope had not approved of the oath, and so the priest had not sworn. She remembered the great schism in the Church as a result of the pope's proclamation, which had caused her to cry more than any other, hating any sort of division in the already tenuous Church. Most of all, she remembered the wrenching, painful acceptance of the killings, and throwing herself full- heartedly into the care of her patients, for such absorption gave her no time to cry over the priest or the displaced monks or, most shamefully, her own fate.

. But that was in the past. The… Jacobins? Was it Jacobins, after a sect of monks? The Revolutionaries, in any case, had acted in ignorance, even when they had taken over the church buildings (they had left the convent alone after all, dedicated, as it was, to the tending of the sick), imprisoned so many of the Church's followers, and when they guillotined the priests.

But Jesus forgave those who had killed Him; why shouldn't she forgive those who persecuted her fellow brothers and sisters in Christ? Besides, it was over. Sister Simplice reasoned that she was just as much a sinner as they were- it said so in Paul's epistle to the Romans. The only difference was that she knew it, and they did not. But such contemplation distracted her from her patients, and though forgiveness was difficult, the revolutionaries did not harm her directly. She should forgive them… she would, as soon as she finished tending to her patients.

Sister Simplice busied herself fluffing the pillow of the woman the mayor had brought in. Sister Simplice paused when the woman shifted, and her blonde hair fell onto Sister Simplice's hand.

Sister Simplice tentatively touched a strand of it. It was cold, and wet, but had a very soft, silky texture. It felt very smooth against Sister Simplice's burnt finger.

The woman began muttering to herself distractedly.

'_Poor girl, she's delusional._' Sister Simplice thought, with a slight pang. '_What this poor child of God must suffer_…' Tentatively, she reached a hand out as if to ascertain if the woman had a fever or not, but paused… and curled her fingers to her palm.

The woman was still pale, and was now shivering, however.

Sister Simplice motioned for the serving-girl (currently trying to deal with the _pain grillé_ Sister Simplice had inadvertently created). There was only one serving girl on duty for the night. The others came in later in the day. It was only Sister Simplice and Sister Perpetua who slept in rooms by the infirmary and tended to the sick early in the mornings and late at night. Sister Simplice liked this arrangement. She was always able to see her poor patients, and the ward was quiet and empty enough for prayer over each patient.

The girl dropped the bread (it landed with a 'thud' on the table, still refusing to break into pieces) and headed over immediately. "Sister?"

"Will you please fetch another blanket? And a nightgown, as well, for when she awakes."

"My poor Cosette!" the woman cried, in a loud voice.

Sister Simplice was momentarily startled. She turned to the woman once more.

The woman was tossing back and forth on the mattress, tangling the bedclothes around her. "My poor Cosette. She's so ill. I had to do it to save her. The Thénardiers want more money than I have. I've been bad. I'm glad she is living with them. I could not stand to see the reproach in her eyes!"

She fell silent was more, and gripped her pillow desperately. Sister Simplice attempted to untangle the bedclothes, but every time she made some sort of leeway, the woman would toss again, and tangle the bedclothes.

'_It's an exercise in patience,_' Sister Simplice continually reminded herself. Even the most patient of saints, however, reaches an end of endurance. Sister Simplice firmly tucked the woman underneath the blankets and drew the curtains.

Monsieur Madeline expressed the need to attend to business, though he promised to return at an hour before noon. After a hushed conference with Sister Perpetua (Sister Simplice was bathing the forehead of poor Mademoiselle Dupont, who was getting over a fever, and so had no idea what they discussed) he quickly exited.

The woman continued to talk loudly, things about Cosette, and payment, and, strangely enough, a man named Felix. The serving- girl, having piled blankets on top of the woman and folded a nightdress on the nearby table, had shot annoyed glances at the woman for a while, and then ignored her and gone back to the bread. Almost needless to say, her attempts at breaking it were unsuccessful.

Sister Simplice tended to her other patients; changing Monsieur Verre's bandages, praying, and replacing candles when they burned too low. The woman continued to talk loudly in the midst of her delirium, causing Sister Simplice to have to go over and readjust the blankets several times.

After a fervent prayer to the crucifix over the bed, Sister Simplice mustered the courage to dampen a cloth and wipe the forehead of the woman, still nameless. It seemed such a pity for her to be nameless like that, but no one knew, save perhaps, Monsieur Madeline, but Monsieur Madeline was not there. It was almost a relief for the woman to be nameless, for if anonymous sin was much easier to isolate oneself from than the sins of one you knew. Just like the Revolutionaries. Sister Simplice took pains never to find out what their names were, or even what their political groups were. It was easier to accept things that way, and it was easier not to feel: be it love, pain, sorrow, or joy.

Sister Simplice paused at that thought, and withdrew her hand. She stared at the cloth a moment, and then glanced up at the crucifix above the bed.

"Please, I didn't mean to cause trouble," the woman cried, twisting the blankets around her thin frame. "I did it only for Cosette. Cosette's my daughter, Monsieur Javert. She's this tall and seven. She's a sweet girl, monsieur. She doesn't know what I've done! I did it all for her, monsieur. I met a man, Felix, and there's only so much you can do. Some men you run from and run from, but they come back and find you and you can't run anymore, so you stay with them. He treated me nicely monsieur, buying me apple tarts and dinner, and finding me a small garret to live in, and… he promised he'd love me, Monsieur Javert. You don't know about love, do you Monsieur Javert? But some people, they take love, whether you want to give it to them or not. But I had wanted to, and I thought we'd marry."

Sister Simplice felt her cheeks flush. She took her gaze off the cross and began wiping off the woman's forehead once more.

"I had a child, Monsieur Javert, and her name is Cosette. I haven't seen her in years; she stays with an inn-keeper and his family. Their name is Thénardier, and they have been very good, taking care of my poor Cosette. But Cosette has gotten very ill, and the Thénardiers need money to pay for the medicine, and I couldn't afford it. I did all I could, Monsieur Javert! I was an honest woman. I did all I could. All I could…."

The woman trailed off and buried her face in her pillow, causing Sister Simplice's cloth to slide into her hair. '_I had not intended to do that._'

Sister Simplice picked up the cloth and deposited it on the table, taking care not to dampen the nightgown. This would take some adjusting. The woman was not just an anonymous sinner, darkening the infirmary and showing the shameful side of human nature. The woman had a child. She was a mother, like the Holy Virgin.

"Please, monsieur," the woman continued in a quieter voice, clutching at the blankets, "I sold my teeth, my hair, everything I could. I had a job at Monsieur Madeline's factory before they found out about Cosette. But I was an honest woman, monsieur. I was an honest woman, Monsieur Javert. I staid an honest woman until I just couldn't anymore. My Cosette was so ill."

Sister Simplice glanced about the ward, making sure no one was disturbed by the woman's speech. No one appeared to be bothered… except for herself. She felt… sorrow.

"May God forgive me, but all mothers want the best for their child. They do anything to give them the best. God help me Monsieur Javert, I meant to make no trouble; I just had to support my girl. She's got no one else to look after her but me and the Thénardiers, God bless them, since her father abandoned us. God forgive me, but I had to do it!" She turned once more, so that she faced Sister Simplice.

Her mouth was slightly parted, and Sister Simplice could, in fact, note, that the woman was missing some of her teeth. Sister Simplice, lost as to what to do, merely decided to softly draw the curtains shut and return to the problem of the stale bread.

This was alarming. This was different. This changed things, and left Sister Simplice with the feeling that she out to prostrate herself before the woman's bed and beg God for forgiveness. She had misjudged the woman. Not only that, she allowed herself to feel once more. She could not distance herself from things anymore, with mild pity and touches of shame or affection. The patient was not just a patient. She was… a mother.

Sister Simplice went about her tasks with a distraction uncommon to her. Normally attentive to her patients, her mind wandered, her concentration became nearly nonexistent, and she felt tired. This, in itself, was alarming. Her work energized her, gave her purpose… eventually, she had to go and lie down in her own small bed. She removed her wimple, and was somewhat startled to see the strands of gray in her hair. She felt old, and tired, for the first time in many years. She fell into a restless and uneasy sleep, tortured by echoes of the woman's cried confession to the police inspector.

It could not have been long when she awoke later. She knelt in front of a statue of the Holy Virgin and the Child, crossed herself, and replaced her wimple. Still inexplicably tired, she read from her book of Latin prayers. She didn't speak any language but French, and did not understand Latin, but she understood the prayers, for which she was thankful.

_Confiteor Deo omnipotenti… _I confess to Almighty God… _beatae Mariae, semper virgini… _to blessed Mary, ever Virgin…. _beato Michaeli, archangelo_… to blessed Michael the archangel… _beato Joanni Baptistae_… to blessed John the Baptist… _sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo…_ to the holy apostles Peter and Paul… _omnibus sanctis, et vobis, fratres:…_ to all the saints and to you brothers: _quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo et opere… mea culpa, mea maxima culpa._

That I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.

This gave Sister Simplice pause. She murmured the prayer again, in Latin, French, what did it matter? God understood both. It was best that way, for Sister Simplice forgot what language she prayed in.

She moved out of her room and to her patients as if in a daze, the prayer running through her mind… _Confiteor Deo omnipotenti… quia peccavi nimis cogitatione verbo et opere, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa._ I confess to Almighty God… that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.

She changed Monsieur Verre's bandages, fed porridge to Mademoiselle Dupont, and gave medicine to the poor patient with a fever. She scarcely remembered doing it, and was sure she muttered the prayer under her breath, but she remembered gazing at the sunrise more than she ought to have.

At long last, she approached the woman once more. Sister Perpetua, seeing Sister Simplice's movement, stopped her momentarily. "Headed for the sinner, eh? Her name's Fantine... or so Monsieur le mayor's told me. He probably doesn't even know for sure." She turned to Monsieur Verre once more. "_Pardieu_! Stop playing with that bandage or I'll cut the hand off! I mean it, Verre! Don't think I don't how to wield a knife!" She turned back to Sister Simplice and said, very calmly, "See if you can stop her from yelling so- she's been quiet the past hour, but she was screeching something awful."

Sister Simplice inclined her head with a slight smile. "I shall try my best, Sister." Her burnt finger caught on the serge of her gown. Burnt finger, bread….

The bread! What had they done about the bread?

"Sister, the bread…."

Sister Perpetua gestured with a handful of bandages. "The serving girl accidentally spilt the holy water on it, the clumsy girl. But I took the wood ax to the bread, and it sliced easily enough, even after it'd been doused with holy water. It's on the table. The bread that is. We're out of holy water now, and the priest'll be very surprised when he returns. Don't know if the bread can be eaten, so I sent the serving girl to the bakery."

Sister Simplice thanked her, and got a piece of bread. She made her way back to the woman, Fantine, and pulled the curtains open.

The woman let out a loud cry, then buried her face in the crook of her arm. Sister Simplice set the bread on a nearby table, noting that Fantine was now clad in the nightgown, and her dress was no where in sight. Fantine looked different- much younger and innocent.

Sister Simplice overcame all trepidation, and gently placed a hand on Fantine's forehead, and smoothed back her hair. "Rest in peace, dear child of God," she whispered. "God has heard your prayers, as surely as he has heard mine." Almost hesitatingly, Sister Simplice bent and kissed Fantine's feverish forehead. "Sleep, child. One who loves you has died to take away your sins."

Such physical contact was unusual to Sister Simplice, but it gave her greater joy than she had felt in years. Perhaps emotion was not so much of a sin after all. God made man and man had emotion… the young priest, the one who had reluctantly sided with the pope, had once told her that love was the most wonderful of all emotions. If God gave it to humans, it could not be bad, and the priest, who had such an aura of contentment in his smile, was a martyr and should be believed.

Sister Simplice bathed Fantine's forehead again, smiling as she worked. She did not speak, for some of the patients were still sleeping. She did not eat the bread, though she felt hungry, preferring to give it to Jean- Luc, who had broken his arm while helping to load a cart. She did not move quickly, for in sickness, one longs only for slow, gentle movement from others. She was contented helping to heal Fantine. Sin was an affliction, just as a fever was- something beyond her power to heal, but something, with God's help, she could help to get rid of.

Healing went far deeper than physical ailments, and, as Sister Simplice wrung out the cloth, she determined that she was not just healing Fantine of sickness and sin… but Fantine was helping, perhaps, to heal her. There was something far greater than any other thing else on earth: the ability to feel love. Without emotion, there was no love, and without love, there was nothing, was there?

Sister Simplice glanced at the crucifix once more. Well, love was the reason she was doing this, wasn't it? Love was what she was to have for all people: her fellow nuns, the Jacobins, Fantine. It was a wonderfully simple thing. And Sister Simplice was happy.


End file.
